A stone chosen by his father. One last spite by a man who did not understand his son. And didn’t want to.

“I hate that stone,” Shane says, walking up. His hands are flat and tucked into his pockets. He plops down next to her. His voice is raw, like it’s been run across a cheese grater a few times. Like he’s been smoking. He hasn’t, she knows. He’d never touch a cigarette. Hell, he’d never touch a candy cigarette, much less a real one.

But he has been crying.

They both have.

“It’s all wrong,” she agrees.

He sighs. And he says with all seriousness, “It’s not fabulous enough.”

Like the vodka, Chris was liquid and bright. (Speaking of, she takes another pull that sets flame to the sorrow in her belly.) His life, cut short. And why?

Because of me, Atlanta thinks. A thought that deserves a third glug of bad potato juice.

“The flowers,” Shane says. “They were all wrong, too.”

She agrees. “All wrong.”

“Roses, carnations. Roses, carnations. Chrysanthemums. Easel sprays, baskets, wreaths. Bo-ring.”

She passes Shane the vodka. He sniffs at it. Raises an eyebrow.

“Just drink it,” she says.

To her surprise, he does. Two seconds later he’s on his hands and knees next to the grave, coughing, eyes bulging like they’re trying to pop out of his fool head so they can roll away.

He spits in the grass but does not hurl. Drool hangs from his chin.

When he’s done he hands the bottle back.

“Yummy,” he groans, wiping his mouth.

“What kind of flowers would he have liked?” Atlanta asks. “You knew him better than I did.” And longer.

“I don’t know. He had an orchid plant, but he barely took care of it. I think for him it wasn’t so much the flowers as it was the arrangement.”

“That sounds right.”

“He would’ve wanted bigger.”

She nods, fills her cheeks with vodka before gulping. After the gasp, she says, “More colorful, too.”

“Like, he would’ve wanted it to be kitschy. Sparklers and tiki torches.”

“And naked fire dancers,” she adds.

“And a robot.”

She snorts. “Okay, now you lost me.”

Above their head, the sky darkens toward evening. A plane drifts, white contrail behind it.

Shane continues: “He liked robots. He had a bunch of old toy robots from the 1950s and stuff. Lot of them still worked. I mean, not as actual robots. He kept them out of sight, but they were down in the basement in boxes. He showed me. His eyes lit up when he did.”

Atlanta stands, arms crossed. “He needed a better outfit, too. You see the suit they stuffed him in? Like a used-car salesman. Surprised they didn’t go for the powder-blue tuxedo. A classic. You want kitsch, there it is.”